Faith
by paintedblack 21
Summary: In the early morning hours, Harry reflects. HBP spoilers.


THE MEAN AUTHOR'S NOTE: The title of this little story-thing, as far as I know, has nothing to do with the actual story. It's called faith because I have FAITH in JKR! Not that I think anyone here at has lost faith in Jo after the release of HBP, but I've heard far too many criticisms of it so far! I didn't think that we wanted the exact same book, written six times, where Harry fights the big bad guy and there's a throw down with Voldemort in the end and nothing ever changes, and then the big huge 7th book where all the big stuff goes down. I guess I'm just sick of people getting annoyed with what Jo has done (especially in the romance category) just because it doesn't agree with what they wanted to happen. Come on, people, I thought we trusted her! So this is me putting my thoughts through Harry. I wrote it at work, and it may be a little long-winded.

July 1, 1997

He had never felt more alone.

In the small upstairs bedroom of Number 4, Privet Drive, Harry Potter lay on his rumpled bedclothes, fully dressed and staring unblinkingly at his ceiling. The first glimmers of sunlight were pouring through his window, bringing an end to the long, sleepless night he had spent in blackness, with eyes blurred from the absence of his glasses and from unshed tears. He hadn't moved once all night, not even to adjust to a more comfortable position, but he had struggled all the same. He hadn't cried. Some might think he was putting up a front, living up to his role as the brave and fearless Harry Potter, refusing to give into tears and weakness. But he knew it wasn't about that. In this night following Dumbledore's funeral, Harry's thoughts had flown wildly from one person or place or idea to another, and though his eyes continued to water dangerously, the truth was – he wouldn't know _why_ he was crying.

Little more than a year before, Hermione had attempted to explain to him and Ron the variety of emotions Cho Chang had felt after Cedric had died and she had become interested in Harry. Neither of the boys had really gotten it, though to Harry's credit he knew he had been closer to understanding than Ron had. But now he knew, and the knowledge was nearly suffocating him.

He thought about his parents, and how strange it was that he could love two people he couldn't remember so much. Then he recalled Snape's Pensieve, and he felt like he had taken a blow to the stomach, just as strongly as he had the first time he had seen the memory of his father, the bully. Up until that point he had taken love for his parents for granted – parents loved their children, and children loved their parents. It was as simple as that. As a small child, of course, he could not imagine his parents as being anything other than perfect. As he grew up, all he had known was the Dursleys – and if they hated his parents so much, his parents _had_ to have been better than them. Then, he had discovered his roots in the wizarding world. He was a boy who was seen as a hero and who would never pass up an opportunity to 'play the hero', but who would never believe himself to be a hero – in his eyes, his parents were the real heroes. It had come as a real shock for Harry to realize that his father was less than perfect. As a montage of images of his parents played through Harry's head, recalled from the Mirror of Erised, the photo album Hagrid had given him in first year, and even his parents at age fifteen from the Pensieve, Harry realized that, dark and dangerous though he knew it would be, he was eager to return to Godric's Hollow. He had planned the trip with the intention of searching for some help in his fight against Voldemort, but he knew that this trace of excitement he now felt was not the thrill of adventure - for now, after many years worth of adventures, Harry merely felt a sense of resigned obligation – but the hope that he would find some personal sign of his parents, and their time with him in Godric's Hollow.

Ron and Hermione. They were coming with him. It was not the first time their dedication to him had shocked him. He remembered all too clearly the night they had gone through the trapdoor after the Sorcerer's Stone. Ron and Hermione had been so horrified to think that he would risk expulsion, and he had tried (shouted) as hard as he could to explain that rules were meaningless when it came to Voldemort, and that if people tried to set rules in place he would break them, he had to break them. Even then, just shy of twelve, he had gotten it. That hadn't been the only time he'd shouted at his best friends, trying to force some understanding into them, either. The previous year, fifth year, he had shaken with rage when they had offered the idea of the D.A. He supposed that they had both realized easily enough what he was saying to them, and they had convinced him in the end. They had fought faithfully alongside him at the Ministry of Magic, but he was certain that the threat of Voldemort, the firsthand knowledge of his power, or the painful memories of his evilness fueled their daily existence. In the end, they still just didn't _get it_. Why should they? They could read about his first reign of power, they could hear stories from the people who had been there, but that was never enough. Harry remembered history classes at his Muggle primary school – or even History of Magic, for that matter. The children who had not been there may recognize how terrible the past sounds, but true comprehension is only available to those who have experienced the pain and destruction. Had Ron spent the majority of his life, sad and alone, because Voldemort had murdered his parents? Did Hermione know the desperate fear of single-handedly facing Voldemort and the Death Eaters? Harry thought back on the year that had just passed, the images in his head now mainly of his best friends, with a bit of RonandLavender mixed in. It seemed extraordinary that Ron and Hermione and, really, virtually every other older student could put so much effort in, and so much focus, on relationships and petty jealousy while their world was in so much danger and disarray. But Harry, perhaps newly intuitive from lack of sleep, realized that relationships were…safe, and logical. The war was surreal, and Hogwarts offered a sense of security. Crushes and kissing and relationship woes allowed people to act as normal teenagers, carefree and unafraid. Perhaps Ron, who had always been loyal and brave but had never gotten quite as far into the battles, needed to grow up a little bit more before he was ready to put his life on the line. Hermione, on the other hand, had always been a great help in pointing Harry in the right direction – but she was certainly not a fearless female warrior, and their years of friendship were marked with occasions of Hermione's personal worries had caused her to lose sight of the bigger threat.

Now Harry's thoughts turned to Ginny, and he wondered if he had made the right decision. Ginny was beautiful, yes, but that was possibly one of the least important things about her. She was strong and brave and smart. He knew that he had begun to view Ginny as a whole person when they had been at Grimmauld Place for Christmas and she had snapped at him for forgetting her struggle with Voldemort in her first year. She did not walk on eggshells around him, as Ron often did, or become impatient with or nag him, as Hermione tended to do. Ginny had also been at the Department of Mysteries that night, too, and then just a few days ago she had fought fearlessly against the Death Eaters at Hogwarts. When Harry saw Ginny in battle, he somehow knew that she was fighting because it needed to be done, and not just because she cared about him. She was fighting _against_ the evil, not _for _Harry, and he knew why – she had faced Voldemort, too. She understood.

Dumbledore had –

No. He couldn't think about that yet. Soon, but not now.

A beam of bright sunlight was laying across face, warming his cheek and stinging his tear-filled eyes. Not bothering to dry them, Harry reached out to pick up his glasses and cringed at the pain in his muscles after so many hours of stillness. He could hear Aunt Petunia moving around in the kitchen below him. He suddenly recalled the Howler that had been delivered to the house two years before, and he realized that Aunt Petunia did not know about…the death. Would she care? He did not know why, but he thought that she would. He pulled himself from the bed, ignoring the pang in his leg muscles, and went downstairs.

THE NICE AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just kind of my thoughts on why the things I've heard complaints about actually make a lot of sense if you think…deeper. I was going to have Harry thinking about Sirius and then Neville, too, but I didn't want to go overboard.


End file.
